


Harbinger Of Winter

by solitariusvirtus



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Always a Different Sex, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Brutality, Curses, Daughters, Dubious Morality, Extramarital Affairs, Father-Daughter Relationship, Heresy, Middle Ages, Moral Ambiguity, Moral Dilemmas, Morally Ambiguous Character, Multi, Murder, Prophecy, Prophetic Dreams, She-wolves of Winterfell, Sibling Bonding, Sister-Sister Relationship, Sisters, bastards, blah blah, etc - Freeform, gender swap, winter is coming
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-08
Updated: 2016-02-08
Packaged: 2018-05-19 05:08:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5954746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/solitariusvirtus/pseuds/solitariusvirtus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The four daughters of House Stark brave the court of the second Aerys, each striving towards her own ends. In the ensuing struggle for power blood runs thin and enemies wait around every corner.</p><p>AU! From oldest to youngest, the fierce daughters of Winterfell take the Southron kingdoms by storm. From wily Branda to romantic Eddara to headstrong Lyanna and naïve Berena, the she-wolves are never far from the snows of winter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Harbinger Of Winter

_Eorlas fornoman asca þryþe,_  
_wæpen wælgifru, wyrd seo mære,_  
_ond þas stanhleoþu stormas cnyssað,_  
_hrið hreosende hrusan bindeð,_  
_wintres woma, þonne won cymeð,_  
_nipeð nihtscua, norþan onsendeð_  
_hreo hæglfare hæleþum on andan._

 

 

 

 

 

 

There is still a scent of burnt wood wafting through the hall despite the wide open doors. Harrenal is in itself a ghost. Corporeal, sturdy still, the keep is, nonetheless, nothing but an empty shell. All life seems to drain away within these dark, charred walls. Whatever curse looms over keeps draining away every last drop of energy from those foolish enough to give in to its demands. This giant, built through only the gods know what methods, dominates the landscape within which it is set. These last remnants of bygone burdens and flesh-devoured souls stands testimony to stories most would not give credence to otherwise.

It still remains that the great work of its builder is remembered by Harrenhal with the blackened bricks and broken towers. A symbol of both death and rebirth, of endurance in the face of hardship. It is distinctly unbelievable that any person stepping within these halls should fail to be impressed. Not so much by the grand scale of this auroch.

Lyanna looks upon the spiralling staircase, eyes trying to adjust to the sharp shafts of light piercing the semi-darkness. Beyond that thin line cutting straight through the middle of the distance between the topmost stair and the ceiling it is hard to make anything out. She just hopes that one of her sister will come running down the stairs from whatever task has been assigned to them this fine morning.

She hears a groan, thin sound that reverberated through the conspicuously empty hallway and turns her head towards Berena, chastisement ready to be released. But her sister rolls her eyes, the impatience written clearly upon her features. “It shall take them forever to get Her Grace ready for the day.”

“It shall take me forever to erase the inhuman sound you’ve made from my memory,” the older sister deadpans. Berena snorts but grabs onto Lyanna’s hand as the first sign of life enters the deserted hall.

Even from this distance Lyanna knows exactly who stands before her eyes. Ser Dayne, however, does not take note of the two Northerner ladies with their, by comparison to all Southron fashion, drab appearances. Berena squeezes her hand and Lyanna can already hear the many hopes and dreams forming in the younger girl’s mind. There is no smile she can give, however, to such, so she merely squeezes her sister’s hand back encouragingly praying that the knight takes notice of them.

As it happens, Kingsguards tend to be the observant sort. Or their senses are sharp enough to make up for lack of observation, because the mountain of a man halts his progress near them and gives a proper bow, the most proper Lyanna has seen thus far from any one man. Berena’s breath hitches audibly and Lyanna proceeds to lightly nudge her as she dips in a curtsy.

“Ser Dayne,” she murmurs to Berena’s somewhat louder greeting.

The knight rises and gives the both of them a smile. “I expect that Lady Branda and Lady Edda have not yet greeted the new day,” he says in fair warning. “Your wait could be a long one.”

“My gratitude, ser, for the warning.” Berena has already advanced away from Lyanna’s side. “We shall wait awhile longer shan’t we, Berena?”

“Absolutely,” her sister answers, a brilliant smile upon her face. “Although I must ask, does the court usually spend half the day abed?”

“You shall be very much in luck if ‘tis only half the day.” This manner of answer catches Berena by surprise and she ends up laughing out loud. Lyanna finds herself joining her sister. It is good to hear her sister laugh like this. “My ladies.” He takes his leave upon the end of a chuckle, leaving the two of them alone once more.

“Is he not the handsomest of men?” Berena questions quietly upon returning to Lyanna’s side. “I vow there is no man to rival him in the Seven Kingdoms.” Aye, and it is this very man that had to join the Kingsguard. A loss indeed to all maidens in the land.

“The handsomest,” Lyanna agrees just as quietly, taking Berena by the hand once more. “Mayhap we should go by the stables, Rena, and see to those horses. If we hurry, we’ll catch them coming down the stairs.”

It is not something to which her sister protests. Lyanna, for her part, is more relieved than anything else that both their sisters seem to be otherwise preoccupied, much too busy to be bothered with the two of them. Well, mayhap not Eddara, because her sweetness and general disposition make it rather difficult for her to generally wish to avoid anyone. Yet mayhap guilt. Lyanna lets it go for the moment, hurrying along after Berena.

“Wait for me,” she attempts to slow her sister’s pace. But Berena has already picked up her skirts and is chasing the very wind. Lyanna does the same in the end. For who is to see them? If the King’s court sleeps, there is no danger to a fair bit of ankle being bathed in the chilly air of the morning.

“I am faster,” Berena yells over her shoulder, now running even faster. She rounds a corner and Lyanna loses sight of her. It is still some way before they reach the stables, so the older sibling does not worry. Not until she hears a loud sound and a cry.

Her sister’s yells push her into a frenzied pace and she too rounds the corner only to face a gruesome scene. Berena is on her knees before a mangled, bruised and bloodied man, urging him to stand to his feet. As if her insistence will help matters.

“Berena,” Lyanna calls over her sister’s stream of words, making her way to the side of the duo. She catches the man by the arm and hoists it over one of her shoulders, inviting her sister to do the same. The two she-wolves managed to bear his weight as they hoist him towards the tent prepared for them beneath the banners of the Houses Stark and Tully.

Lyanna steps within the tent first, hefting their guest along as Berena pushes him within. They place him upon the straw mattress mingled with feathers. The oldest sister is already reaching for the bowl of tepid water. “Berena, bring out my other chemise.” Not needing anything more than that, Berena is rummaging through the chest at the other end of the tent, pulling out a pristine gown, fingers tearing at the thin material deftly.

She brings Lyanna a few strips and takes other for her own. They start washing at the man’s wounds Lyanna’s jerky movements and somewhat irritable look upon her face, Berena’s movements and expression stand for contrast.

There is congealed blood covering the wounds, and dirt has settled within these wounds. Water might not be enough to help this poor, wretched creature. And yet that is all to be had for the moment. Lyanna continues to work on wiping away at the filth covering this unknown man. There is nothing she can say about him other than that they must be somewhat close in age. Her work wears on even after Berena stops her efforts in a strop when coming upon a piece that moves her.

She holds up in Lyanna’s face a small brooch in the shape of a lizard-lion. “He is one of us,” she tells the older sister with enough strain to her voice that Lyanna is compelled to look upon the girl’s face rather than the brooch. There are no tears to be seen though, so her gaze returns to the lizard-lion. “He is one of father’s bannermen.”

“It could well be,” the older she-wolf allows, picking at a blade of grass. Man men have come to the tourney. Why not one of father’s bannermen as well? Despite having not sent knights to fight in the joust, as to father’s mind no one suitable has been yet found to represent the House of the Wolf, it is not out of the realm of possibilities that some lords have taken it upon themselves to go on their own. But only a fool would send a boy out on his own like this, weaponless.

Berena sniffles. “We have to tell Lord Tully.”

“And what would Lord Tully do?” The question comes across as cross and pointed, making Berena reel backwards much to Lyanna’s regret. “Apologies, sister mine. You know very well, however, that Lord Tully has his own daughters to see to.” That is not to say that the man has not kept his part of the deal. Lyanna should think that father will be much satisfied that his two cursed daughters are well as ever upon their return.

A man of his word that he is, he will not go against mother’s final wish.

Seating herself at the injured man’s feet, Berena picks at the lint on the folds of her skirts, invisible though it be. She continued to do so as Lyanna works away, content to sit in silence and contemplate whatever it is that her mind conjures. For her part, the older sister wonders if perhaps something can be done for the poor fellow.

He is not dead and has likely spend his night in this condition by the looks of him. It would be of aid if a maester saw to the wounds. Yet what to say to such a man? Would they believe she has no involvement with this stranger? Her father’s man he might well be, but Lyanna has both herself and Berena to worry for.  

“Fetch me the cup over there,” the first of the two instructs, gingerly lifting the injured man’s head so she might rest it upon her lap. Berena comes closer, holding the cup to the man’s lips. Lyanna lifts his head a tad more. “Gently now.” The irony of it is not lost on her. But Berena merely goes through the motions with nary a care for aught else but this man she has fixated her attention upon for the moment.

They continued to make him comfortable, going as far as to peel off his dirtied tunic, throwing it away. “Edmure is taller than him, but see if you can convince him to give you one of his tunics.”

“And if he is not there?” Berena questions, already standing to her feet, the upward quirk of her lips slashes through just at the corner by the silver scar.

“Simply take one.” If the gods are good them he won’t be there. Lyanna waves her sister away, wishing by this point, as she pulls the heavy pelts over the man’s front, that she could move. There are times when she can be patient, certain tasks she may carry through every now and again with pointed, blatant self-control, but carrying for the injured is to her what making though is to the knight.

Looking upon the edges of her skirts she can see the red stains dotting the hem, along with streaks of dirt. The sight of it turns her stomach so she looks away to one side of the tent. There are times when just as these when she must wonder at the cosmic principles pushing the world forth and forth.

If the gods truly exist, surely they should care for their creations. If they exist but have no love for the life they’d created, then what is the point of worshipping their carved faces or the statues in the sept. Or if they do not exist at all, then why do people still swear by them? It is all a grand mystery upon which one adds the burden of compliance. Like this poor man whose head sits upon her lap, what is it that he has done to anger the gods so that he must pay in blood?

A truly disturbing notion. The she-wolf looks up at the sound of steps. Berena makes her way within her arms wrapped around a bundle. “He has gone out riding and the guard paid me no mind.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Eddara shakes her sister’s shoulder gently. Branda murmurs something and turns in her sleep, knocking into Lady Ashara’s frame. The long journey had wearied them all out, the youngest thinks. But despite here body’s many protesting jabs, she can no longer stay within the bedchamber and sleep. Her mind has already travelled to two young she-wolves bearing the brunt of their father’s blame already arrived. If Branda wills to sleep the day away, the she may do so, but Eddara will see Lyanna and Berena.

So the she-wolf slips without, abandoning the comfort of the mattress and the warmth of the slept-in coverings and makes her way to the chest at the end of the bed. She pulls out one of Branda’s dresses on the first try and shoves it back in with none too much grace. Her second attempt yields a much better result although her eyes rest upon the sleeping duo. She pulls out an appropriately cheery dress, that if she might come upon Robert on her walk, then she will not disappoint the expectations of the realm. Resisting the urge to roll her eyes at the though, of Robert mostly, but of those pesky expectations as well, she sees herself dressed and her hair combed neatly, then plaited in a thick tail.

She wastes no moment with ensuring that she has left nothing upon the small stool which served for her table and grabs the first cloak she can find, making her way out the door. A thought comes to her as she climbs down the spiralling stairs, dainty feet slipping fairly often upon the sharp edges. If only she might jump the last three. Which is what she ends up doing, with an unladylike leap. Thankfully, her landing is safely accomplished, no injury befalling her strenuous activity.

Eddara presses on, well into the darkened hallways before a familiar sight stops her in her tracks.

Arthur Dayne stops as well. His expression still catches somewhere between relief that her time at court is not yet over and that niggling stabbing regret. The very last thing on her mind is to make matters difficult, so Eddara moves to the side, as far from him as the hallway’s length permits. The man makes no further move to approach her. He only gives her one long look and passes her by after,

Her heart squeezes painfully, for a moment standing still within her chest. Gaze travelling after him, she only catches a fluttering edge of white before he is out of sigh.

And her whole body springs back into motion. It cannot be, whatever her heart would beg for; she knows that much. Father promised her to Lord Robert Baratheon. And Ser Arthur is a Kingsguard. Even if she somehow managed to talk father out of wedding her to Robert, she would be no closer to achieving her desire.

For a brief moment she wonders at the grotesque taste of humour the gods have bestowed upon her. Such a thing to be had. Absent smile and duly prepared sigh, the young maiden continues on her way until her slippered foot meets the stone-hard floors of Harren the Black’s keep and she finds herself in an unpopulated area.

Strange, she would have thought at least one of her sisters would be waiting.

The sinking feeling, distinctive companion of knowledge finds her yet again. She wonders even as listless steps guide her towards the open doors, if Lyanna has convinced Berena not to come, or if Berena herself thinks ill of her now. The thought she cannot stand.

Eddara marches on into the great courtyard. Again, there is not a soul in sight. It cannot be that the whole keep is asleep and the servants are all within the kitchens. Still, if there is no one about, what is she to believe.

She passes through the gardens, stopping before rosebushes, thinking that mayhap either of her younger sisters might have wished for such a flower. Sans protection, her fingers wrap around the fragile stem of a rose, careful of the thorn. Two flowers shan’t be missed. But as her thumb bears down upon the stalk, a sharp pick stabs her finger, embedding itself into her flesh.

She lets out a sound of her surprise with a yelp, bringing her abused flesh up for inspection. The thorn is not far in and she manages to pick it out with ease. Returning to her task, this time she manages to take both flowers without further injury. Two barely-open roses perk up prettily for inspection, the fragrant buds singing their thrill to the world around.

The smile upon the she-wolf’s face dies away slowly. The buds seem to droop and she wastes no time discarding them. The twin flowers fall to the ground, whatever apology rested within their petals now dirtied by dust. She means to walk away and leave them there, but as her eyes come upon them once more, the young woman finds that she does not have the heart to. So they make it into her hands again and she leaves the gardens with her prize, unaware that eyes watch her carefully through her progress.

Radiant banners of blood-red and Tully-blue are easily spotted, the banner of her own house fluttering along the other. Eddara skips her way to the cluster of tents, heart swelling in her breast, anticipating thrumming mercilessly through her veins.

The flaps of the tent spring apart and a wide-eyed Berena tumbles without, her footing somewhat unstable. But her youngest sister, upon sighting her, is arrested in her spot, not even moving an inch. A sliver of hope shines through.

“Berena,” Eddara says, her voice a whisper against the breeze. And Berena’s reply is a head-long rush into her arms. The scar on her face is now hidden by the sturdy material of Eddara’s dress.

“Rena,” a voice calls out from within, instantly breaking through the heavy curtain of emotion. “Don’t take too long.” The pet name, so obviously affectionate, feels like a sharp rock cutting into her. Eddara’s hands fall away from Berena. But her sister still holds onto her.

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
